"Fuck." (Author's Note: Every erotic story should begin with a good fuck)
I worked my way through the kitchen, dodging cooks and waitresses. The fact that none of them responded to my exclamation proved one point to me: I walked through the kitchen crying "fuck" way too often.
I was on my way to the restaurant manager's office...and not happy about it. I knew what he probably wanted. I would be working overtime.
As one of the hostesses I didn't have the benefit, if you want to call it that, of receiving tips. Tony, the manager, had found a new way for me to increase my income— and for him to work his way up the corporate ladder.
It always upset me when he called me in, adjusting my social calendar for me, just to fit his needs. Or rather, the needs of executives visiting the restaurant from the corporate office.
OK. I always ended up enjoying the experience. But it seemed like such an inconvenience at the time. This was one of those times.
I tapped on the manager's door and entered, not even waiting for a response.
"Ah. Traci. Have a seat."
Tony was in his thirties, rather short but otherwise attractive. It was his philosophy on the use of the restaurant staff that set him apart. At least, his philosophy on the use of ME set him apart.
I sat down, watching him shuffle papers for a second before looking up.
"We have somebody coming in," he said. I always enjoyed his use of the term "we". I had as much control over this as I did over when the sun rose and set. "An auditor. I'd like him to be...uh, happy while he's here."
"When is it?" I asked.
"Next Wednesday evening." He looked at me hoping I wouldn't explode. He didn't need to know I had absolutely nothing going on that night.
"Shit," I moaned. "This will cost you."
"Hey. It's not the weekend. The usual rate applies," he countered.
"Anything I should know?"
We'd done this enough for Tony to know what I meant. I hated to be sent into a situation where the guy wanted something and I wasn't made aware of it in advance.
"Well, actually, yes," Tony replied. He fidgeted for a second, then said, "He wants a schoolgirl. He'd like you to dress up like a schoolgirl."
This was a first. Normally the guy didn't care what I wore, but was specific about what we did in the room. This guy was taking it a step further.
"A schoolgirl? You mean like a Catholic school outfit or something?" I asked.
"I guess," Tony said. "But I was thinking more along the lines of a short plaid skirt and a shirt..."
He finished the description but my mind was already lost in a myriad of images. The one I settled upon was a pleated, plaid mini skirt and a white shirt that tied in the front. No buttons. And books pressed against my chest as I walked in. I smiled.
"OK. I can do that."
The guy's name was Charles. Apparently that's what he went by. Typical auditor, I thought. Tony told me where to be and when and let me get back to work.
I was kind of excited about this one, but didn't want Tony to know. He paid handsomely for my services—I mean the restaurant did—and the more I made it seem it was a burden the better it was for me in the long run.
So I spent that evening on the Internet looking for places to buy pleated, plaid mini skirts and white shirts that tied in the front. There were plenty available, but getting them delivered in time was the problem. It ended up the restaurant paid for express shipping and I had the stuff in three days.
The day the box arrived I eagerly ripped it open as if it was Christmas all over again. On top was the skirt, a very, very small looking 11 inch long skirt. I held it up to my waist and wondered how you sat down in it without exposing everything. I guess that was the idea. And I loved the little Velcro connection on the side.
The shirt was even better. It wasn't much more than a large piece of material with short sleeves and strips in the front that tied it together. I didn't have the largest breasts in the world, but most of what I had would be visible in THIS thing.
Wednesday arrived and I slipped on a red thong before pulling up the little skirt and fastening it in place. I ran my hands down the back of the skirt, touching my skin just a few inches below the bottom of my butt. I needed the mirror to convince me nothing was showing...yet.
I pulled on the shirt and experimented with different ways to tie it. I ended up with it fairly tight against my skin, nipples clearly visible through the material on both sides. To say it showed plenty of cleavage was a gross understatement.
I fixed my long brown hair and put on sneakers before grabbing my books and heading out the door. This was going to be fun.
I drove to the motel where Charles was staying and right before getting out of the car popped a sucker in my mouth. I figured it was easier to get rid of than gum and opened up more opportunities for licking. I liked to lick...a lot.
Soon, I was knocking on his door. Charles opened it and welcomed me in.
I entered the room and laid my books on top of a dresser. Now that they were no longer held in front of me I turned to face Charles as he closed the door and walked into the room. His eyes quickly roamed over the shirt and ample cleavage it showed.
We introduced ourselves, exchanging a polite handshake.
I rolled the sucker in my mouth and walked in front of him to the side of the room containing a table and chairs. On top of the table were two ice buckets: one held a few cans of beer and the other a bottle of wine. Two motel glasses sat next to the buckets.
